And Now
by thesecondshelf
Summary: (or, why Hermione needs to stop worrying and just listen to Ron every once in a while). The morning after Fred's funeral, Hermione wakes up in Ron's bed with too much on her mind (and not as much as she'd like on her body). Will these two ever get it together? Continues on from my story "Here," although it can most likely stand on its own. OneShot, T for Ron's mouth and innuendo.


**And Now**

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****_A/N: As the summary says, this is a direct continuation from the events in my story "Here," although I'm reasonably sure it can stand alone. I'm not quite as satisfied with it as I am the original, says it's good enough to post - so who am I to argue :-). Characters and setting belong to JKR, mistakes are mine and mine alone. Enjoy!_

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Hermione awoke quickly and surely, as she always had. Strangely enough, even the atrocities of the past year were not enough to alter her sle eping habits. For months on end she had clung to that little bit of normality, claiming it as evidence that even while everything else fell apart there were certain aspects of her being that would never change, no matter how hard the world tried to break her. This morning, however, for the first time in a very long time, she inwardly cursed her tendency to wake up refreshed and completely aware of her surroundings.

Though her heart was beating loudly and her limbs itched to stretch, she dared not move a muscle without forming a plan of action. The facts flashed in her mind's eye, as they always did in an uncertain situation.

1. Ron had buried his brother yesterday. The ceremony and subsequent impromptu gathering that Lee Jordan had christened "The Celebration of Life" had lasted into the night. Ron seemed to be handling the events of the day quite well in the company of others, but when he began his ascent to his attic bedroom Hermione saw him unravel. When he choked out a request that she stay with him, she could not refuse him.

2. She was still in Ron's bed. Specifically, she was laying with her back to Ron's right side. Her head was resting on some combination of Ron's pillow and his left arm, and her bum was (embarrassingly) pressed up against what she assumed to be his right hip, based on their approximate heights and the location of her head in relation to his.

3. Ron was asleep. His breathing was even, and he was very still. She knew from months of sharing a tent with Ron that, unlike most people, he shifted occasionally when trying to feign slumber but moved very little when he was actually asleep.

4. She would need to be careful about moving, for she was wearing an old nightdress of Ginny's that was entirely too short to be considered decent. She would never have left Ginny's room wearing anything like it under normal circumstances, but Ron had been so devastated last night that she hadn't given the garment's appropriateness a single thought when she threw it on and bounded up the stairs.

5. Ron had said wonderful things to her last night before they fell asleep. Clumsy and uncertain things, yes, but coming from Ron they had been wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that she had slipped and made a few unguarded comments of her own before remembering why she was in bed with Ron in the first place (see fact #1).

The details swirled around in her head for a moment, bringing her right up into the present time. Ron was still sleeping, thankfully, giving her time to plan her next move. A part of her (a very large, very content part) wanted to bury herself further against Ron's side and beneath his sheets, remaining pressed against him until he awoke of his own accord.

Another part- the part Ron would have referred to as Prefect Hermione, had he been privy to her thoughts- knew she had to leave, and quickly.

First of all, it was inappropriate for her and Ron to be sharing a bed. They were teenagers living under his parents roof, and while they may not be in any sort of officially discussed relationship, she doubted Molly Weasley would find comfort in that fact if she discovered them in such a situation.

Secondly, friends did not share a single bed when there were other perfectly reasonable sleeping arrangements to be had. Not even friends whose friendship had been blurring at the edges for years now, resulting in something that ranged from moments of tenderness to bouts of outright animosity to what Ginny told her could only be described as tension. (Truth be told, Ginny had used a certain adjective in front of the word _tension_ that Hermione would not even permit herself to think about at the moment- not when parts of her body were pressed up against Ron's and she was trying very diligently to ignore how pleasing and natural that felt.)

Lastly, Hermione was growing increasingly more uncomfortable with how forward she had been with Ron last night. She had tried, at first, to dodge his questions, not wanting to engage in any sort of important conversation when he was so clearly engulfed with grief, but by the end of the night she had come very close to confessing things she had begun to think she would never get a chance to say with him. A year ago she would have been proud of her courage, but in light of recent events it was entirely inappropriate. Ron was grieving, and she had nearly used his desperation as a means to discuss certain things she had wanted to talk about for longer than she cared to admit.

But there was no time to think about that now. The sun had fully risen over the Burrow and was shining quite unforgivably through Ron's attic bedroom window. She had no way of telling how much longer he would remain sleeping under the current circumstances. In order to avoid a conversation she was not quite ready to have (no matter what she had felt the night before), she quietly slipped out from beneath his sheet and silently tiptoed toward the door.

As her absolutely terrible luck would have it, she did not quite made it there.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, his voice far too clear and defined for someone who had just woken up. She stopped in her tracks but did not dare turn around, hoping with everything she had that his eyes were still closed and he was not looking at her.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked in return, avoiding his question.

"Long enough," he replied. She heard the springs of his old bed creak and his sheets rustle as he spoke, telltale signs that he was moving. "Don't ignore my question," he continued. "Where are you going?"

"Back downstairs before your mother wakes up and figures out where I am," she answered, her face burning with the implications of her statement.

"My mother has bigger things to worry about than where you're sleeping," he replied. "Come back to bed." A heavy silence followed his words, as both of them seemed to realize simultaneously what he had just said.

Hermione's first instinct was to locate a wand immediately, point it at Ron, and demand that he prove that he is indeed who he appears to be - for the Ron Weasley that she knew would never, ever be able to mutter a line that sounded as if it came out of one of her old Hogwarts dormmate's trashy romance novels.

Hermione's second instinct, of course, was to do exactly as he said for once in her life.

Before she could do either, fortunately or unfortunately, Ron spoke again.

"I didn't mean that like it came out," he promised, and she'd be lying if she said her heart didn't drop a bit in response. "I just... you said we could talk."

Technically, he was right. She had promised him just before she dozed off last night that they could talk in the morning about things that seemed very important to him and that she suspected involved her to some extent. Which was all well and good, of course, when she was too close to Ron to think clearly. Now, in the quite literal light of day and the chill of early morning air on far too much exposed skin, that seemed like a terrible, awful idea.

Honestly, she was absolutely terrified at what he could possibly have to say.

Ron Weasley was her best friend. She also fancied him like mad, which she had come to terms with quite some time ago. Over the past few months she had even begun to consider the possibility that she more-than-fancied him, but the thought of something that important was quite terrifying and she chose not to dwell on it. She could be reasonably sure that, at least until a few days ago, Ron fancied her as well. He had hinted at it enough times over the past few months, and when she had kissed him in the Room of Requirement he had responded quite enthusiastically, leading her to believe that all her suspicions had indeed been correct.

Unfortunately, since that blissful moment, many things had changed. For one, Harry had defeated the man formally known as Tom Riddle. The world was noticeably safer than it was this time last week. She, Ron, and Harry were no longer on the run, and she no longer feared for all three of their lives on a daily basis. The mission they had all begun nearly seven years ago, if she thought about it, had been completed. She didn't know where she stood with Ron in this new normal.

Then there was Fred: Fred, who now lay under the earth near the paddock where the Weasleys used to play Quidditch on warm summer days. Ron had lost a brother. She had read about the grieving process two summers ago when Harry had lost Sirius, so she knew it was quite normal for Ron to reach for her in the aftermath of this tragedy. What she couldn't bear to deal with was the possibility that he was reaching out to her solely because of what he had lost. What if his wonderful words last night had been a product of the grief he was feeling? What if he had said things without truly thinking them through, eager for affection and comfort in this difficult time?

Her head spun with the weight of that prospect. She knew they had been heading somewhere for years, but what if Ron's grief was the only thing keeping them on that particular path? As much as she wanted to be there for Ron, she couldn't take the thought that his continuing affection for her could be fueled by misery, exaggerated due to circumstance. Unfortunately, she had absolutely no time to answer any of the questions she had posed herself before Ron spoke again.

"Why won't you look at me?" he asked, his voice much softer and much more sad than it had been moments ago. His tone was heartbreaking, and she actually shivered at the emotion behind his words.

Before she could respond (when had she ever been so speechless?), she heard a great deal of rustling, Ron's unmistakable footsteps across his creaky old floor, and more rummaging through what she imagined must have been a dresser drawer. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she turned just in time to see him hesitantly hold out an old pair of pyjama trousers and a maroon jumper.

"Here," he said gruffly, looking anywhere but at her.

"What?" she asked stupidly, noticing that he had thankfully managed to put on a pair of trousers himself while she had her back to him. She didn't know how she could possibly have continued this conversation if he were still in his boxers.

"You were shivering," he replied, still staring in the vicinity of his toes. "Here."

"Oh," she said, finally realizing that he must have thought her shivering was related to temperature. "Thanks," she stammered, using his confusion to her advantage and slipping on his clothes, grateful for the excuse to cover up a bit.

"No problem," he muttered, his new tone unrecognizable. They both continued to stand awkwardly in the center of his room, Hermione desperately wanting to flee the uncomfortable situation and Ron clearly still interested in talking to her.

"So..." he started, trailing off as he finished the simple word. She could feel his eyes on her, but she continued to stare at the floor, completely frozen in her anxiousness. "For fuck's sake, Hermione, look at me!" he blurted, suddenly and angrily. His volume caught her completely off guard, but she managed to respond in the only way she knew how - she yelled back.

"Are you trying to wake the whole house with vulgarity, of all things?" she spat, finally turning around to face him. She was shocked for a moment, for he looked completely different than he had sounded a moment ago.

"No," he replied, his volume much lower now. "I was just trying to get you to look at me before you left."

"I wasn't leaving," she lied, uselessly.

"Oh really? Because it sure looked like you were trying to sneak out while I was sleeping."

"I just didn't want to wake you," she lied again.

"Well, you don't seem to want to stay while I'm awake, either. For a girl who talks all the damn time, you're doing a great job of avoiding the one conversation I actually want to have with you," he replied, his voice rising in frustration.

"Is that supposed to make me want to stay here with you?" she retorted. "You want to talk to me once, and I should be pleased?"

"You know that's not what I meant. Why are you being intentionally difficult?"

"I'm not!" she insisted.

"You are. And you know you are - you only put your hands on your hips like that when you know you're wrong and you don't want to admit it."

She gasped, only noticing her change in posture after he pointed it out. Did she really only assume that position when she was losing an argument with him? Her irrational anger diffused immediately with the knowledge that Ron Weasley may know more about her than she knew about herself. That didn't, however, make the timing for this conversation better or her fears about his misplaced affection for her any more terrifying.

"Ron, you've had a rough few days -" she said, gently, dropping her arms to her sides.

"I've had a rough few months. Years, maybe. What does that have to do with you refusing to talk to me?"

"I'm not refusing to talk to you-" she started, but he cut her off.

"Not completely, no. Just about what I should have said last night when you were actually listening. I'm starting to think that you know exactly what I'm going to say and you just aren't interested in hearing it," he said, his voice nearly breaking as he finished.

"That's not it," she insisted.

"Then why are you doing this?" he asked, and she didn't think she could have lied to him again if she tried.

"I don't know what you want from me," she admitted, finally.

"You're lying," he replied. "I'm not as dense as you think I am."

"I don't think you're dense," she whispered, "I think you're grieving, and grief can intensify and exaggerate emotions you are feeling..." Unnerved by his gaze, she shrugged and averted her eyes.

"Intensify and exaggerate? What are you..." he stopped, suddenly. "You read that in a book, didn't you?"

"And what's wrong with that?" she spat.

"Oh, nothing," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I mean, if you wanted to know how I'm feeling, why would you ask me when you can read about it in a book?"

"I was just trying to help, Ron," she said, disgusted with the tears she could feel behind her eyes.

"By avoiding me?"

"By not putting you in a position where you might do something you'd regret."

"Something I'd regret? What on Earth are you on about?" His voice was tired and confused. She wiped her eyes furiously with the backs of her hands, staring resolutely at the floor.

"I just..." she stopped, took a deep breath, and said the only thing she could come up with- the truth. "I just don't want you to say or do anything you don't mean because you're upset and in need of comfort, that's all."

She felt her legs begin to shake when he didn't answer her immediately. She struggled to calm her own breathing, inwardly cursing her inability to control her emotions. She was so worked up she was even having trouble standing. She hesitantly stepped backwards once and then twice, relieved to feel Ron's mattress against the back of her legs. She sat down slowly, hoping she didn't look nearly as unsteady as she felt.

"That's what this is about?" he asked. She didn't respond. She didn't dare look at him until she could compose herself.

She took a few steadying breaths, still staring down at her lap. He paced for what felt like an age but was barely a minute before sitting on his bed next to her, so close that their thighs were touching. He hesitated for a moment, before reaching over and taking one of her shaking hands within his own.

His hand was shaking too.

"186 days," he said, finally and decisively.

"What?" she breathed.

"That's how long it's been since I've done something that I regret because I was upset." He shrugged after his explanation and pulled his hand from hers to wipe his palm on his trousers.

She did the math in her head as quickly as she could. 186 days meant about 26 weeks, and 26 weeks meant six and a half months. Six and a half months from early May was...

_Oh._

"That's a long time," she murmured.

"Not really," he said. "Feels like yesterday sometimes."

"It feels like a lifetime ago to me," she insisted, eager to reinforce the fact that she had forgiven him a long time ago. For the first time since he came back to the tent on that cold winter night with the Sword of Gryffindor in hand, she felt like he believed her.

"What does yesterday feel like to you?" he asked, quickly steering the conversation back to the one he had been trying to have with her since the night before.

"Ron," she started, but he didn't let her finish.

"You told me we could talk," he very nearly whined, and she grew tired of refusing him.

"All right," she agreed, "but I start. You really haven't regretted anything in 186 days?"

"Nothing I've _done_," he clarified.

"What else is there to regret?"

"Things I haven't done," he said, his voice surer and clearer than hers had been all morning. "But you don't get to ask all the questions. Why did you stay here last night?"

"Because you asked me to," she said honestly.

"Will you do anything I ask, then?" Ron smirked, the innuendo clearly not lost on either of them.

"I guess that depends on the question, doesn't it?" Hermione replied, quite pleased with the way his eyes widened at her uncharacteristically flirty response.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked. She wasn't expecting him to be quite so bold with his next request, but she still had her response at the ready.

"If I remember correctly, you are quite capable of doing so. Although, I suspect you meant to phrase your question 'May I..."

It became quite clear to her that Ron was not concerned about nuances of grammar when, instead of waiting for her to finish her sentence, he ran a shaky hand up her jumper-covered arm, leaned in, and kissed her soundly her still-moving lips.

"I wasn't finished," she gasped, as he pulled away from her to take a breath.

"Neither was I," he replied, cheekily, leaning back in to capture her lips yet again.

Hermione's last thought before Ron managed to completely distract her was that technically, they still hadn't had the conversation they'd been talking around for the last 7 hours (or was it years?). Somehow, though, that didn't seem to matter now.


End file.
